Free Turbulent Priests (Dan Starkey 3) by Bateman

was firmly affixed to the wall. What’s more, I could now get thirty-two different channels on my portable television. All of them static. Unless I met an expert, I would have to forgo the pleasures of world championship boxing. Flynn didn’t say anything about the dish.
    ‘You don’t mind a bit of a walk, do you?’ he said. His cheeks were flushed pink. He wore a green windcheater and trouser ensemble, with matching green wellington boots. I wore black jeans, trainers and a bomber jacket.
    ‘I’m game for anything,’ I said. And I was. For the first time in a long time there wasn’t even a hint of a hangover about me. Apart from my thumb, I felt on top of the world.
    We turned right at the gate and continued on up the roadfor about a hundred yards, then he guided me off along a muddy lane which quickly began to dip towards the coast. Before we’d progressed very far the mud had oozed up over the edge of my trainers. Flynn appeared not to notice. He strode along confidently while I slipped along uncertainly behind him. I hadn’t walked in mud since primary school.
    We started out with the usual small talk, but after a while it trailed away and on the odd occasion when I managed to stay abreast of the priest I could see that his face was grimly set, his brow furrowed. He had something to say, and he was just working out how to do it.
    Eventually the path ended in a thirty-foot drop to the sea. We stopped at the edge and for a few minutes we both stood staring out over the waves as they rocked and raced. The wind brought tears to my eyes.
    ‘Beautiful,’ said Flynn.
    I nodded.
    He pointed, first to the Antrim coast and then across in the direction of Scotland, although there was nothing visible in that direction. ‘Four times a day tidal pressure forces a billion tons of the Irish Sea through that gap between Torr Head over there and the Mull of Kintyre. On its way northwest it meets another current coming in the other direction and . . . whoa, then there’s trouble. They meet over there, just off Rue Point – see the lighthouse?’ I nodded. ‘The waves are so violent you can hear them a mile away. Makes you appreciate the power of God.’
    I presumed this was his way into it , but if it was deliberatehe wasn’t taking advantage of the opening. We were silent for a few more minutes. He opened his mouth a couple of times, about to speak, then just gulped in some more air.
    I returned to a well-used tack. ‘You know, Father,’ I said, ‘there aren’t many things in life can’t be summed up in a single sentence. It’s a basic rule of sub-editing.’
    Flynn nodded slowly then turned to me. His eyes suddenly looked a little haunted.
    ‘I’ve been having visions,’ he said, simply.
    I nodded.
    ‘I’ve been talking to God.’
    I nodded again.
    ‘He’s told me the Messiah has been born. Here on Wrathlin.’
    ‘Oh,’ I said.
    We began to walk along the edge of the coast. We were alone, barring rabbits. ‘They’re hares,’ Father Flynn corrected, then added, ‘You think I’m mad.’
    ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m sure they are hares.’
    ‘I mean . . . the Messiah.’
    ‘Not necessarily,’ I said.
    ‘It’s why you’re here, to write about me. To vilify me.’
    ‘Absolutely not.’
    He shook his head. ‘If only you knew,’ he said.
    I stopped, snagged his arm. ‘Tell me,’ I said.
    ‘You think I need this plastered all over the papers?’
    ‘I’m sure you don’t. And I don’t intend to. If you don’t want to tell me what you’re on about, fair enough, let’s geton with our walk. But I think you do.’ I gave him my re assuring smile. It rarely works. ‘All you have to do is say the magic words.’
    ‘What, like, please leave me alone?’
    ‘No, like, off the record .’
    He smiled. Nodded. ‘I always did like you.’
    I shrugged. ‘So what about the Messiah?’
    It was cold. I put my hands in my pockets. I switched the tape on. He never did say the magic words.
    ‘You should